


The texture of brick against a parched tongue

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Series: The Devil, the Spider and the Skull [2]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Daredevil (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blind Character, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, POV Matt Murdock, Pre-Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Synesthesia, aro Matt Murdock, with a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: Romantic advice from one emotionally hopeless case to another. With sex.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Natasha Romanov, Matt Murdock/Natasha Romanov
Series: The Devil, the Spider and the Skull [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169780
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The texture of brick against a parched tongue

The text read ' _busy? -- NR_ ' and arrived in the short window between an angry man shouting about legal representation slamming a foul-smelling pet-collar onto Matt's desk, and a long-awaited call from the DA's office regarding another case. In a way, it was the highlight of an otherwise dismal day, but still Matt only remembers that he texted her back a terse ' _my place, 9p.m._ ' when he returns home himself at quarter to ten.

Locking the door behind him, he notices the indescribable disturbance in the air that lets him know there is an intruder in his best known space. Natasha has her own key. To this day, it makes Matt smile to remember that while her pulse had betrayed her true emotions, her only verbal acknowledgement had been to scoff that he was trying to make her lockpicking skills deteriorate.

He hangs his cane next to her jacket on the coat rack, smelling _dog, gun powder_ and _beeswax_ , like keen soloists piping up in the melody that is Natasha's personal fragrance.

"Hello stranger," she greets, her voice making it easy to locate her on the couch, followed by the papery flutter of a book closing and a soft thump as it is placed on the table.

"Hey yourself," he replies, shedding shoes, suit jacket and shades in their respective familiar places along the way as he walks over. Natasha takes his hand and leads it to cup her face as guidance and he kisses her cheek; her warm smile tugs at the stubble of an overdue shave on his own jaw. The slick noise of her lips parting is loud, so close to his sensitive ear.

He joins her on the couch, the cushions still carrying a trace of warmth where she's been sitting, and without conscious decision, they come together in a comfortable tangle of limbs, Matt reacquainting himself with her scent after weeks of its absence, his nose buried in the flat and silky strands of hair. There's usually a reason for her to radically change her look, but if she doesn't offer it, he won't ask.

As they lie there together, Matt feels some of the day's tension slowly drain from his limbs and realizes that she, too, is relaxing against him.

"What colour is your hair these days?" he asks after a peaceful while, in their roundabout way of checking in with each other, winding a strand of it around and around his fingers.

Natasha thinks for a second, then says "the colour of fresh arterial blood on a historical brick building in warm fall light."

"So _red_?" Matt chuckles, secretly appreciating the imagery.

"I like to be precise," she says and nips at his fingertip as it ventures too close.

"Why are you here, Nat?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "Much as I appreciate the social call, I know you better than that."

The way she stiffens in his arms lets him know he's right and he gives her the minute she needs to either make up her mind or choose her words.

"Do you remember Clint Barton?" she asks, her voice as flat and neutral as a mission report.

Matt hums an affirmative. "Hawkeye? Don't tell him, but I actually like the idiot. Do I have to kill him?"

Natasha rearranges herself on the couch, nudging at him until she comes to rest between Matt's legs, her palm warm on his chest and her face safely hidden away in the crook of his neck.

"Yes, because that's the kind of thing I would come to _you_ for," she deadpans, which he both deserves and expected, but there's also a rare vulnerability to the way in which she molds herself to his body. 

Matt waits for her to find the words in her own time, focusing on the pressure points of her fingertips as they draw patterns above his heart.

"He likes me," she softly admits and it carries a distinct note of puzzled sorrow.

"Wow, what an idiot," Matt says sarcastically, holding her a little tighter to feel the smile she tries to hide against his skin.

"When SHIELD sent him after me, he learned every detail about my past that they had compiled and after we started working together... By now, there's very few people who know me as well as he does."

It goes without saying that Matt's been a card-carrying member of this very exclusive circle for years so he moves right past that to ask "You think it's going to be a problem for your continued partnership?"

"Yes," she says, idly tracing a crease in his dress shirt to the ticklish spot on his ribs. Matt catches her fingers with his own.

"Because you don't return his feelings," he adds the obvious, to prompt her to continue with her train of thought. However, she clears her throat instead of confirming, adjusting her position on his chest with a slow roll of her hips. Matt stops the motion with a firm hand on the swell of her hip.

"That distraction strategy - as much as I enjoy it - doesn't work on me anymore," he admonishes lightly, voice rough from the way his chin is angling down to keep Natasha from the Achilles's Heel that is the shell of his ear.

"Could've fooled me," she breathes, removing his hand from her hip and guiding it to cup her breast. Her chuckle is nothing less than triumphant when, predictably, he stiffens against her bent-up thigh. He leans in to find her face, their noses touching briefly as their lips hover a scant breath apart.

"If this is what you want," he says quietly, "then know that I am more than happy to fuck you into next week." He feels her pleased gasp as much as he hears it when he gives her flesh a teasing pinch. "I do think however, that maybe this isn't why you're here."

Natasha quickly kisses him before settling her head back against his shoulder with a sigh. "He's a good guy, you know," she continues her elaboration on Barton, as if she had never interrupted her thought. "It's especially tough to stay that way in our line of work."

Matt nods, unselfconsciously reaching down to straighten the increasingly tight situation in his pants. "I'm not a relationship expert, but if he likes you and you like him, why aren't you" -he traps her hand again as it tries to sneak open his belt- "doing _that_ with him."

"Because he's not a realist like you and I. He's a hopeless romantic and he deserves better," Natasha says and goes in for the kill, licking a long, wet stripe from Matt's collarbone all the way up to his earlobe. Matt curses and it's enough of a distraction that she manages to boldly cup him through his slacks, exacting some delicious pressure in all the right places. 

Matt grits his teeth, trying to stay focused while Natasha demonstrates that she knows his body and its most pleasurable weaknesses almost as well as he does himself. As if to prove the point, his hips buck into her hand without waiting for his brain's permission. 

"Clint's not openly brought it up, but he's been walking around hiding a jewellery box and to be quite frank with you, I have no idea how somebody so terrible at hiding his intentions ever got the drop on me," Natasha continues conversationally, setting one foot on the floor and rising enough to inch down Matt's wrinkled suit pants and underwear. Matt gives up the last shred of pretense and lifts his hips to help, the sudden freedom from fabric restraint and cooler air on his erection almost enough to set off his hypersensitive synapses.

As he slouches down, something flops onto his stomach, giving off a whiff of dish detergent and traces of dried pasta sauce.

"Did you just throw a kitchen towel on me?" Matt asks, somewhat incredulous, trailing off on a gasp as Natasha's fingers close around him.

"I did. You're about to make a mess and we both know this night will proceed much more satisfyingly if we get that first round out of the way first." 

While he can't fault her logic, Matt still sputters a weak objection of "unsanitary", whining deep in the back of his throat as Natasha halts and releases him from her hand. 

"If you mind that much," she says, amusement evident, "would you like me to stop?"

"No no no," he pleads, laughing despite himself as he reaches out and pulls her down, their deeply filthy kiss all the sweeter for the shared smiles it contains. 

It doesn't take any time at all until the preventive towel proves very useful indeed. 

Matt makes sure to return the favour with interest as they retire to his bedroom. 

"Are you staying the night?" he whispers into the hair at the back of her neck, a few hours later while Natasha still trembles with the occasional aftershock of her latest peak.

She mumbles something vaguely affirmative, turning in the circle of his arms, their sweat-slick skin dragging against each other and their scents one heady, indistinguishable concoction.

"Mark me," she demands, tugging his face down to the taught stretch of her throat, poised with anticipation of enjoyable pain.

Matt drags the flat of his tongue over the salt at her pulse-point, revelling in the reflexive tug on his hair and fast puffs of breath pushing her chest closer into his embrace. 

"Why? You hate visible evidence," he says, lips and teeth teasing tenderly without giving her any of the sting she desires. 

Natasha rakes her nails over his scalp, knowing well he's too sensitive by now for any direct stimulation, peppering small kisses to his closed eyes, jawbone and nose.

"Please," she breathes against the shell of his ear, in an award-worthy portrayal of submissive devotion "bruise me so that everybody I meet can see how you had your wicked way with me."

Matt laughs out loud and rolls away to lie on his back. "Oh my God, Nat. Nothing has ever sounded less like you in your life."

Natasha cracks up as well, still chuckling as she pulls up the sheets over them and settles in again with her head tucked under his chin. Matt lets the duet of their beating hearts and ebbing of endorphins in his blood lull him to a state of blessed half-awareness, the last embers of euphoric exhaustion pacifying his senses. He's almost nodded off when Natasha speaks up again. 

"If he sees me proudly wearing bites and bruises, maybe he won't get any ideas about potentially romantic gestures," she says, quietly and, for lack of comparison Matt would almost call it _scared_. For a long, silent moment, he contemplates her words.

"From a purely selfish standpoint, I don't want to object to this plan, but you could just tell him you're not interested," he suggests and, after the brief hesitation of figuring out whether he really does want to go there, adds "but I think the main problem here is that you _are_ interested."

Natasha doesn't deny it, just burrows closer.

"He's fallen for you despite knowing your worst facets. I dare you to let him in."

"What if I can't live up to his expectations?" Natasha whispers.

"Then you get to do some of your favourite things: tell me I was wrong while we have hot rebound sex."

He catches her hand as she playfully swats at him and presses a kiss to the center of her palm.

"It won't come to that though," he assures her before leaning up to roll them until he is braced above her. "Until then, maybe can we compromise on the placement of bites and bruises."

He kisses his way down her body and Natasha laughs; low and musical and grateful until it deteriorates into a crescendo of gasping moans.


End file.
